Valerie French (1923) (16 page)

She whipped about, vaulted— habit and all— on to Joshua's back, twitched the bridle over the other horse's head, and flung down the Row with irons flying.

The two men stared in her wake.

After a little they turned and looked at one another.

"How the devil," said Plague, blinking, "did she make that horse move?"

THE NEXT TWO hours were crowded.

Anthony's one idea was to see Valerie: Sir Andrew's was to communicate with Lady Touchstone. The one, of course, was depending upon the other. Only her aunt knew where Valerie was. Food and raiment, however, had to be considered. Anthony had neither shaved nor bathed. Sir Andrew had done both, and felt as though he had done neither. A second bath was, of course, essential. Then, breakfast had to be swallowed....

The most pregnant moment of all was that at which Sir Andrew excitedly informed the cook-general of a Bloomsbury boarding-house that 'the misunderstanding had been cleared up, and his secretary was ready and willing to fulfil his contract of marriage with her niece.' It was not the knight's fault that he had been given the wrong number, and, having regard to the war conditions invariably prevailing at Tomb Street during the 'rush' half-hour, Miss Ada Margetts may be forgiven for admitting that she was Lady Touchstone. The result, however, was exhausting. Twice did Miss Margetts desire Sir Andrew to repeat his amazing news, and twice, literally squinting with suppressed emotion, did the knight, to his eternal credit, comply with her request. Then he was asked to ''old the line.' ... After a hideous two minutes, during which Miss Margetts helped a cabman to transport an American trunk from the third floor to the street, communication was re-established.

"'Oo d'you want ter speak to?" inquired Miss Margetts.

"Goats and monkeys!" shrieked Plague.

"Nothin' doin'," said Ada, replacing the receiver and picking up a pair of boots.

She did not even smile. She had no time. It was the 'rush' half-hour.

Sir Andrew did not replace his receiver. Instead, he detached it with great violence and hurled it into the garden. There it was presently found by Patch, the Sealyham, who played with it for an hour, and then buried it providently under the rhododendrons.

The disruption of the telephone rendered indispensable a visit to Hill Street....

More electricity was induced later, when Lady Touchstone, whose hold on topography was always treacherous, found herself unable to give the direction of Bell Hammer and could only tearfully insist that 'you always passed through Ealing.' Even when it was established that the estate lay in Hampshire, the poor lady continued to confound, by declaring that the passage of Ealing was a condition precedent to anyone's successful arrival at Bell Hammer, and an attempt at joint map-reading, in the proportion of one small-scale map to three shaking forefingers, resulted in Sir Andrew's being assisted into the morning-room and set in a draught. Indeed, had she not finally chanced to refer to the notoriety which Ealing had earned as a haunt of highwaymen—

"
Ealing?
" shrieked Anthony. "You mean Hounslow! Hounslow Heath!"

Lady Touchstone stared. Then she clapped a hand to her mouth.

"That's right," she whispered. "I meant Hounslow. Not that I like Ealing, but that doesn't matter. It's Hounslow you go through. Did ever you know such an idiot? I'm dreadfully sorry, Anthony. Most dreadfully sorry. And simply frightened to death. I'll go and get under a bed while you break it to
him
."

THE LIMOUSINE flung through Basingstoke at an unlawful pace, and presently happening upon a ten-mile stretch of metalling, which clearly owed its being to the Roman ruler, swallowed it whole in thirteen minutes dead.

Five minutes later my lady sailed into Brooch, slid past the castle, dropped down the busy main street and then, coming to a carfax, crept to a policeman's elbow humbly enough.

"Bell 'Ammer?" said the peace officer. "Bell 'Ammer lays on your right." He pointed to a slit in an old half-timbered row. "Keep along there till you see the Close on your lef'. Then bear right-'anded on to the Bloodstock road. Bell 'Ammer's the secon' lodge after you pass the village o' Napery Green."

The direction was sound and the road good. The car made up for the check handsomely...

Indeed, she finished her business at a quarter to one by coming to rest at the steps of a broad mansion, upon which its spreading mantle of wistaria was blooming for the second time.

Anthony Lyveden alighted and rang the bell.

A moment later he was standing before Valerie French.

The girl looked tired, as one who has slept but ill the night before, and, when she spoke, her tone was that of the soldier who has retired from the fight— not because he is beaten, or afraid, or weary, but because he has perceived that he is not destined to prevail.

"Why have you come?"

"Because I love you, Valerie."

Valerie turned her head and stared out of a window.

"Do you?" she said listlessly. "Why?"

"I think it's very natural," said Anthony Lyveden. "I loved you the moment I saw you— that afternoon. I didn't know it then. But I do now."

"Who's told you?" said Valerie. "My aunt?"

Anthony shook his head.

"I realized it myself— yesterday morning."

A faint frown gathered on Valerie's brow.

"Yesterday morning?" she said, as one who is troubled with a problem he has no desire to solve.

"Yesterday morning," repeated Anthony, "before I saw you, or Forsyth.... Yesterday morning I found out a terrible thing. I found that I was engaged— engaged
to somebody else
. I wasn't really, but I believed I was.... And when I made that discovery— that false discovery ... when I realized what it meant— then all of a sudden I knew that I loved you.... It's strange, but I suppose that's the way of a fool. If you're a fool, you've got to have something forcibly taken away before you can realize that
without it
you can't go on.... Well, I'm a prize fool. There I was in my Paradise, wondering why on earth I was so happy. Suddenly my Paradise was gone.... And the loss opened my eyes."

"What," said Valerie slowly, "what made you think that you were engaged?"

"I met a girl in the Park, and I recognized her. I can't tell you how or why. I just did. I remembered her, and I remembered her name."

"Yes?"

"André."

Valerie caught her breath. Then she went very white.

"Go on," she said quietly.

"I couldn't remember where I'd met her, or anything else— except ... except that there'd been something between us ...
something
... I didn't know what.... Well, we spoke for a little, and I seem to have said the wrong things. It seemed absurd to tell her I'd lost my memory, because I'd remembered her. And somehow, in my efforts to get at the truth, I gave her the impression that I wanted to call back Time.... I only wanted to find out how I stood; she thought I wanted to take back something I'd said or done.... And when we parted she thought that I loved her, and I thought that I was engaged....

"Well, I had to tell you— somehow. I knew you had no idea—
knew
. You’d never 've let me hold you and kiss your lips if you'd known that all the time I was pledged elsewhere. Some girls, perhaps ... But you—
never
. And then, when I told you, I found that you
did
know—
had
known all along. I found that you had deceived me. I found that you, my idol, had done the most despicable thing.
You told me so
, Valerie. You never even tried to conceal it. You put your arms round my neck and told me so ... told me you'd cheated me and let another girl down....

"And I went out of your flat, picked up Patch, and tramped the streets of London till I could hardly stand. I was beside myself, partly because I'd been disillusioned, but mainly because, for all my disillusionment, I knew that I loved you still...."

There was a long silence. At length—

"Why are you here?" said Valerie.

"Because this morning I met her, and she told me the truth."

"You know..."

"I know enough. I know that yesterday I made a ghastly blunder. I know that I
was
engaged ... but not to her. And I know, thank God, that my hands are clean, Valerie, and that I have the right to come and ask your pardon for a mindless man's mistake."

Valerie put a hand to her head.

"You remembered her," she said. "You remembered André. And then you thought ... I see," she added slowly. "Yes, it was natural enough." She rose and put out her hands. "I'm awfully glad you came, Anthony. Most awfully glad." He went to her quickly and took her hands in his. "But I'm awfully sorry you know about our engagement. And now"— she looked in his eyes— "for once I'm going to tell you the absolute truth. You're
not
engaged to me. You were, but you're not any more. You're free— free as the air."

"You mean..."

"What I say, Anthony. You are— released."

"But, Valerie, I love you!
I love you
! Don't you— don't you love me?"

The girl turned her head and regarded a photograph. This was framed in silver and standing upon the mantel-piece. It was a splendid likeness of Anthony Lyveden.

"I did— frightfully," she said. "I loved you so much that nothing in the world mattered— except your smile. But now..."

"Valerie! Valerie!" cried the man. "What have I done? It wasn't my fault that I made that crack-brained mistake. And I’d never 've dreamed you'd deceived me if you hadn't told me yourself."

"You would. You did. You asked me before I told you."

"Only because your manner gave you away."

"I know," said Valerie fretfully. "I know. It— it wasn't your fault."

"And though you'd done this thing— this dreadful thing, I loved you still. I tell you, I tramped the streets. I was nearly out of my mind. Don't you believe me?"

"Yes."

"Then why d'you think it was? If I hadn't loved you, Valerie, d'you think I’d 've cared? What made my engagement so hideous? My love for you! What made your deception so bitter? My love for you. I tell you, I've come out of Hell. Don't send me back."

"I know you love me," said Valerie. "I know you do." With a sudden movement she put her arms round his neck. "No, don't kiss me. Just look me full in the eyes. There, like that. That's how you used to look, lad.... And now listen. I think you'll understand.

"I'm thankful this mistake's been cleared up— most thankful. In a way, it's been like a bad dream. And now I'm awake ... in a way. When you left me yesterday, I prayed for death. It— was— the— last— straw. And there have been so many ... I don't blame you in the least. To tell you the truth, I think I should have done just the same. In fact, once upon a time I did. But that's another story.... And when you say you love me, I believe you do. And I'm very, very proud and very grateful. But..."

"You ... don't ... love ... me?"

"I want your old love, Anthony. And only the return of your memory can give me that. Perhaps I'm asking a lot, but then, you see, I'm spoiled. You've spoiled me. You can't remember doing it, but you did. And when you
do
remember, lad, then you'll understand why this new lamp— handsome and shining as it is— isn't the same."

"But, Valerie, you loved me yesterday— the day before! You say that, when I left you, you prayed for death. That means you loved me. The new lamp was good enough then."

"I suppose it was. I don't know if it would have lasted. Perhaps it would. But now...." She dropped her head upon his chest. "Oh, Anthony, can't you see? Must I tell you right out?"

The man stared over her head, frowning and seeing nothing.

After a little—

"No," he said, "I can't see. You must tell me right out."

"Well, then," said Valerie gently, "you must remember that I'm a woman.... And women are vain ... proud ... bursting with
amour propre
. It isn't your fault, I know, but—
you've remembered André
...." She felt him stiffen, and lifted up her head. "And so, you see, dear," she added, with her eyes on his, "you've just got somehow to remember me," and the moment the words had been spoken she could have bitten out her tongue.

Her hands slipped from his shoulders and she turned away.

As she came to a window—

"I'm going into the garden," she said shakily. "Ring and tell them you want to get ready for lunch. And then come and find me— just as you used to do."

Anthony watched her pass across the terrace and down the sunlit steps.

Then he flung back his head and clapped his hands to his eyes.

VALERIE PASSED down into the garden, cold with rage. She was furious with Fate, most furious with herself. She had done the unspeakable thing. She had squealed under the lash.

She had been hurt hideously, and she had shown Anthony the wound. She had lost desperately, and she had let him see that she cared. Worse. She had usurped his heart's function ... told him the way to comfort her ... explained in so many words that his kiss could make her well.

For two or three minutes she wallowed in the torment of mortification. Then the red mist lifted, and she examined her stripes.

Truly Fate knew how and where to lay on.

After everything— after all Anthony and she had been to each other— after all her blazing advertisement of his love— after all her secure compassion for André Strongi'th'arm, he had forgotten her and remembered André ... remembered a girl he had only seen twice in his life. The king had forgotten his queen, but remembered the wench who had dared to aspire to the steps of
her
throne. And André— the wench— was laughing ... hugging the truth to her breast, where it would hang
for ever
. The queen might have Anthony's love, but the wench had his remembrance. And Anthony had only seen her twice ... only twice....

Valerie stopped still and stared at a fat peacock hewn out of box.

"My God," she breathed, "what's the matter with me? Have I no personality, no charm? No beauty of body or soul? No strength of character? Have I made no impression at all— after all these months?
None
. But André ... in half an hour ... How can I feel the same? How
can
I? How could anyone?"